


Forever In Your Hands

by Snake (Fatality145)



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: M/M, ME3, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-13
Updated: 2012-10-13
Packaged: 2017-11-16 05:14:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/535915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fatality145/pseuds/Snake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>There were times where he couldn’t remember his own name until another breathed it, a shudder going down his spine, the pulse in his tongue beating in rhythm with and against the flesh in his mouth.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forever In Your Hands

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mintsui/tumblr](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=mintsui%2Ftumblr).



> [All That Remains - Forever In Your Hands](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l8i6HfSKzhw)
> 
>  
> 
> (◕‿◕✿)
> 
> i'll write something good one day i swear i sWEAR

Flesh is fragile, more like paper than steel, regardless of the tempering, regardless of what it’s gone through, but it’s also exceedingly durable, stronger than what it’s given credit for. Human skin might not be as thick and unforgiving as a Turian’s chitin, or as hard or heavy as a Krogan’s skull plate, but the body that it covered could persevere through much. Scrapes, scars, gashes, wounds, dismemberment, illness, disease, mutilation - the flesh only coming back terser, intertwining threads leaving mere memories that soon wouldn’t hurt.  

 

                A bullet in the wrong place, though, a sword’s tip between the ribs, and the skin would give way, nicking a vital organ. Humans don’t have redundant systems to rely upon when one fails, ripping apart a partially synthetic heart pumping partially synthetic blood through partially synthetic veins, in a body that was only _just_ whole, anymore.

 

                But that heart still beat, and that skin still crawled, flecking in gooseflesh, that tongue was still silver, and those eyes, still blue, though with remnants of red, still saw deeper than what was at the surface.

 

                He was pretty sure, even if he couldn’t be a hundred percent, like he never could be, that every organic body needed maintenance; mundane, trivial things that took no thought but kept you alive, breath between parted lips, through a bloodied nose, down a drying throat. It felt like razors and acid, but it felt so _good_ , expanding the lungs, getting the life flowing, again.

 

                The systematically ruined inhales and exhales, then, though, weren’t to get the blood moving, it was already running hot beneath the sweat-dotted skin, the thrumming pulse that could be felt through a left shoulder blade beneath a palm. This kind of breathing was to keep his head straight, to keep his consciousness going while the rest of his body was given away to abandon, the side of his face pressed into the dampened covers, propped knees twitching over the sheets as his fingers would further crease them.

 

                It was _that_ tongue on him that made it hotter than it actually was, _those_ nails in his hips, leaving faint marks and bruises in the morning cycle. That certain scent of sex he’d wake up surrounded by, sticking to his skin, the spot in the bed next to him empty but not at all, still warm, and the sound of the doors hissing open, calloused hands holding things for him, long fingers with twisting veins that could smooth out the lines between his brows, at the corners of his eyes, but could also make him tense up, forcing a cobwebbed moan out from his chest.

 

                The actions were all muscle memory, signing a simple signature, or pulling a hair trigger, jaws leaving bites along his ribs pulling out the pin of a grenade, strangely soft lips breathing heatedly against the blemished hollow of his throat or breathing into the mouthpiece of an airtight helmet, making static.

 

                Muscle memory brought through a few close calls, death in his ear, and an actual death. If there were any times where he felt alive, after Lazarus, after the reconstruction, this was it. There were times where he couldn’t remember his own name until another breathed it, a shudder going down his spine, the pulse in his tongue beating in rhythm with and against the flesh in his mouth.

 

                “ _Shepard_ ,”

 

                He knew him, too well sometimes, how his thighs would shake either side of him, his arms curled up around them from the bottom, thumbs sliding down the slants of his hips to his groin, fingers curling around the base of his length. A heel would dig into his back, hitched over his shoulder as his lips would come away from the head, saliva stretching between the lower and the slit.

 

                Hair shorn short, as always, deft fingers didn’t have something to grab, so they’d always go for the tags perpetually around his neck, tugging at the chain until it was about to break.

 

                Holding those dog tags in his palm was exactly the same as holding that partially synthetic heart in his hands.

 

                They were more than two plates of engraved metal, only because of the person who was holding them, only because of the chest they were pressed against, hidden beneath unrelenting armour, dinted just as the gear was.

 

                Breath would simultaneously hitch, both through choking, one more perfectly painful than the other, the one that would make toes curl into the covers, and the other surfacing deep groans, vibrating in a throat.

 

                His palms would smooth down the undersides of his thighs, feeling him up, working him up, until he would be pushed back, glazed over eyes meeting his own, tugging him forward by the chain around his neck. And of course he’d comply, pressing flush against him, chest to chest, stomach to stomach, bodies that framed one another.

 

                There was sex on his tongue, murmuring between the lip-locks that he always won.

 

                “ _Kaidan_ ,” It was strained, breathy, one hand tangling in Kaidan’s hair, the other grabbing beneath his knee and hitching it up by his hip, having them impossibly closer, pulsing heat up between their stomachs. Nails sunk into his shoulder blades, over the dug in scars, the edges of them coarse, raised lines flaring feeling back into them.

 

                Air stolen and given between their mouths, it would be a transition all too smooth when Shepard would turn them over, like flux and flow, push and pull, never once breaking the contact. The flesh of Kaidan’s flank was pliable beneath his fingers, leaving more crescents with his nails as the knees bent by his sides shifted up, hips rutting against his own.

 

                It was never really quiet, and it was never actually prompted. It was just datapads and reports dropped, fingers in clothes, fingers in perfectly managed hair that Shepard found curled when dishevelled. It was just something in the atmosphere, in the space so much bigger than the both of them, something that could make you lock up if you thought too hard about how miniscule everything actually was.

 

                But when they were arm in arm, mouth on mouth, legs twisted together, it _was_ everything, infinite while being as simple as reloading a thermal clip into a mattock. Even that took time, though, and you had to watch a six, but Shepard liked it when it was like this, he wouldn’t change it for anything.

 

                Kaidan’s back to him, his blind spot and most weak of places exposed and open, accented by the naked curve of his spine dipping inward, the weaved muscle of his tensed shoulders, head ducked and breath held as he would lower himself onto Shepard’s hips, exhaling the inhale through lightly grit teeth.

 

                The only thing disadvantageous about it, really, was that he couldn’t see his face, how his brow would knit and his mouth would twist as he would try to keep it closed, and then fail, jaw falling open, sucking in short, greedy breaths.

 

                Arched over, Kaidan’s fingers curled against Shepard’s calves, the thick muscle smattered in more scars, braced as he shifted. Pangs made him shiver and shake, biting into his lower lip, the hands at his waist pulling him smoothly back as he would roll forward, hips pushing up to meet his own.

 

                Tipping his head back, the pillows and covers by Shepard’s face smelt of the two of them, and it hadn’t taken long for that to happen. Only once did Shepard have to grab Kaidan’s arm as he pushed himself off the bed, the sweat drying on his skin, hair messed, and drag him back down into the warm sheets, before the lesson was learnt – first time, too.

 

                  The fragility, in itself, meshed with the trust to show it, was gorgeously addicting, a proof that someone was able, willing, and reassurance that Shepard could do it himself, lower the guard he had about himself, the guard he needed to have, to make the skin more steel than paper.

 

                His fingers ran up the impossible geometry of Kaidan’s back, where it went from his svelte hips to his broad shoulders, wider than his own. There were lines, not nearly as much as what Shepard had, but they were still impressive, if looked at from that perspective, dashes of rend flesh long healed, concave portions of tender, thinner skin. Others were raised, thicker scar tissue, and some weren’t even from harm, but from tryst, when Shepard would bury his face into Kaidan’s throat, muffling a hard sound, tightening his legs around his hips, nails raking his shoulders.

 

                Once his hand reached the back of Kaidan’s neck, swiping away the sweat, the wetness curling the ends of his hair, Kaidan looked back at him, over his shoulder. A flush crept over the bridge of his nose, and he tensed up as he was pulled back, trajectory changing, bettering, making him tremble, his six pressed against Shepard’s chest, legs shifted out from beneath him.

 

                He bucked into Shepard’s grasp as it closed around his dick, then back down onto him, head lolled to the side on his shoulder, parted lips already kiss-bruised reddening further as they rubbed over Shepard’s stubbled jaw. It was a compromising placement, leaving his hands with nowhere to go, again. One opted to grip the wrist of the arm that wound about his chest, tightly holding him close, while the other went for the tags again, fingers hooking into the chain, locking around the plates.

 

                Even though he could only see half of it, Shepard knew the expression painted on his face, clenched jaws, clenched body, lips pulled back from his teeth at one corner, eyes shut and brow furrowed, the lines showing up caused by something better than stress or concern or a headache right at the greying temples.

 

                The sound he would make, trying to bite it back, when he’d come undone, was something ingrained, something Shepard couldn’t, and wouldn’t, get enough of. The heat around him, and the heat seeping into his hand, feeling him shake in his hold as each of his muscles would jerk, the fervour leaving him boneless, and feeling him flinch as he’d follow behind with a whisky-deep groan.

 

                Shepard couldn’t explain it, but the come-down was the best part, the closest part, when he would watch a faint, lopsided smile cross Kaidan’s mouth, the muscles pressing down on him slowly relaxing as the heat would die, but the warmth would remain, enveloping.

 

                He would bury his nose into Kaidan’s damp hair, breathe in the saccharine and kiss his scalp. There was no rush to move. This was one of the times where Shepard would spare the dwindling minutes that he didn’t have, goosebumps coming up over Kaidan’s chest as the sweat would turn cold, nails tracing over the wide plains.

 

Soon enough, he’d get nudged back, and Kaidan would accommodate to mouth lightly at his lips, then press his forehead to his, eyelids kept languidly open, dilated pupils sinking into him, letting it happen.

 

                Home is where the heart is, and, under his palm, beneath Kaidan’s skin and ribs, his heart was steadily beating.


End file.
